fiction, Uncategorized

The Time Travel Artist

I love my job.

Someone managed to change something. They shouldn’t have been able to. But, that is the company’s problem. Someone needed to die, again.

Killing someone is not an easy thing. Killing them again is even harder. Killing them the same way as before.

That is art.

Her name was Mary Harris. Nineteen years old. Strangled.

19:23 exactly. My hands are already around her neck. Not too soft. With passion, as before.

19:24 she is dead.

On the dot. Man, I’m good. I stand up and look around. The room hadn’t been wrecked. That is always an annoyance. A simple strangulation. I look down at her. Turning blue.

“Sorry, darling,” I lie.

I would feel sorry for her, really. Her savior is in jail. Her killer is still unknown. But, I don’t. I feel hungry. I’m a professional. Only professionals know when they are hungry.

I study the room. I study the body.

One of her eye-lids is shut. I bend down and open it wide, just like in the picture. Sadness and terror, it says. I smile.

“Now, that is art.”

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